World End Theory
by Allegory for Hatred
Summary: 5 times Number Five writes on something he's not supposed to, and 1 time he gets arrested for it. ((Warning: thoughts of suicide)) /AU where they stopped the apocalypse./
1. Goshawk

My first 5+1 I guess? who knows.

I have a chunk of this fic written but I was hoping that posting the first chapter or two might give me the motivation to finish!

or not.

enjoy or don't!

* * *

1.

.

.

"Shit."

Five's making a fresh pot of coffee when it hits him. It's a fresh wave of panic and terror that sets his hands to moving. He's uncapping the marker without even realizing it, and welcoming a scrawl of numbers onto the first clear surface he lays eyes on. Hurriedly working out the probability of whatever fancy just crossed his mind.

It isn't until the probability is mostly run now that Five feels like he can relax again, even if his shoulders are strained and sore from the tension of worry. 45%. That's not too bad.

The coffee maker beeps.

.

There's writing on the table, a marker on the floor.

Allison has to hold back a sigh—a task she only accomplishes by way that the doer of said crime is quietly watching her from where he's perched on the counter. Five stares her down, sipping at coffee Allison can smell the bitter of from across the room. She thinks he looks like a cat up there, or maybe a bird of prey.

"Uh, morning Five." She starts. "It's early. Did you sleep alright?"

"Morning."

Dealing with Five is a roll of the dice. He's quick to anger and quicker to up and leave. It doesn't help that he looks thirteen but has the mentality of someone in their fifties. Allison has to play her cards carefully. She makes herself a cup of coffee in the meanwhile, eyeing what looks like scribbles on the table while she adds creamer.

Finally, Allison settles on, "You've been... busy." while motioning to the table.

"Sure."

Jesus. He's not going to give her anything, huh? It's not like she doesn't get he's working on something vaguely important; she just doesn't get why he has to do it on the table. "You know we have paper, right?"

Five's face scrunches up meanly, but he doesn't address her gentle poke verbally. There's a flutter in the next sip he takes that pulls Allison up short.

"You can't just write on the table, Five." She struggles to find reason that Five might agree with. She knows he wouldn't care that Luther will be annoyed, or that someone is going to have to clean it up. "I'm sure it's important," she settles on playing off of the boy's egocentrism, "but that doesn't mean you can just graffiti the whole house." Allison tries very hard to leave the 'like a child' out of her tone of voice. It's debatable if she succeeded.

"It's hardly graffiti. I need to check the probability for the apocalypse. The table is as good a place as any."

By the half-hearted defense, Allison thinks she must have caught him in a strange place, and feels something in her chest clench. "Five... we already stopped the apocalypse. You're... You can stop, right?"

Five waves a hand vaguely. "Just double checking a few things."

It doesn't taste like a lie in the air, but the shortness of his words is a bit disconcerting. A bit of worry bleeds into her expression. "Do you think there will be another problem?"

"Maybe." The tightness in Five's frame only picks up more. It's not quite nervous as it is stressed, Allison thinks.

She should say something to the rest of the family—that Five is still worried.

Five hops from his perch on the counter like a goshawk to its prey.

Allison watches as Five bends down to take the marker from where it must have rolled to the ground. He toys with the cap for a moment before sitting by the scrawl on the table. After a bit of quiet, Five offers, "Before I got the name for Peabody at the Commission I had already narrowed down a few suspects. I have to make sure they aren't still a problem."

And Allison thinks that's valid. She still doesn't get the table. "Okay. I can get that. Just don't write on the table."

"It doesn't matter where I work, Allison," his voice is sharp and angry. It's a tone that carries over the scritch-scratch of the marker as it resumes writing. "If you keep bothering me about it, I can't work anywhere. It's not my fault you're too dense to understand."

She scoffs and feels a bit like she's telling off a rowdy child. "No writing on tables. That's final."

There's a tilt to Five's writing and a few sharp phrases on his tongue. "Don't treat me like a child."

(I'm doing this for you.)

"Then don't act like one."

Slamming his hand down on the table, Five pushes away. He grabs his coffee and his marker and makes to leave. The way of his leave speaks a quiet unrest. "I can't focus with you idiots around." It sounds weak to her ears, too.

Allison feels like she should apologize, but doesn't. She isn't sure what for. They're all adjusting to being a family again, but sometimes it feels like Five is just as distant as when he wasn't there at all.

There's a sharpness to Five's steps down the hall, and anger in her chest she thinks is just as strong. A whiteness in Five's knuckles like the talons a bird of prey strikes with. Laying traps of numbers and names on tables.

Allison wonders what he's hunting. With the way Five writes on tables, she thinks it must be something grand.

(He's hunting smaller birds.)

.

Five doesn't know what's wrong with him. He's all over the map, mentally.

Maybe it's the lack of sleep. Probably that.

Tossing the marker aside as he sits by the desk, Five heaves a sigh. By now, the walls of his room are much busier. There's a scrawl of angry, black numbers running across one wall and onto the next. More numbers and names to mark the one by the door and over the dresser. If he keeps this up, the walls will look painted black soon, Five thinks. He'll have to switch to a different color.

Allison's dismissal of the work Five is doing put him off, chilled his bones yet heated his ire. There are excuses he could give, but he doesn't want to. There's something childish and weak about telling her the truth. The truth sounds like an excuse because it is one.

He could tell her he's not used to having paper to write on. It all burned up in the fires of the apocalypse. Five is used to collecting his thoughts on walls and tables and in the air, caught by Delores' plastic ears. Not used to being told off for thinking out loud.

He could tell her the world is ending still. That he's afraid they'll die tonight, because he knows the exact likelihood they do. That Vanya's a ticking time bomb any day of the week. He could tell her what the numbers on the table mean.

But Number Five doesn't want the sad, soft, motherly look. That look saying she pities him. And he doesn't want her to worry, either. This is a burden he can carry. A consequence of his own faults.

The thought of Allison doesn't bother him long. Five doesn't let it (she doesn't matter). Because there are worse things in the world than fighting with siblings and writing on tables (Five knows. He's lived through all of them).

Vanya has a new student starting this week, and not knowing who they are has been keeping him up all night. Five takes the marker and uncaps it, drawing an accidental line of thick black over his hand. Then the desk becomes a canvas, too—to run the probability that Vanya's new student is another trigger. He'd checked yesterday evening, but wasn't satisfied.

So until Vanya's talking to no-one at all, Five will keep checking his numbers—whether it's written in marker or blood, on paper or the table—Five will check again.

The coffee cools in its mug. His math is unreadable.

.

Allison and the others aren't smart enough to know what the kitchen table says. But Five knows. He thinks if they knew, too, they wouldn't be so careful about where he does his work. If they knew that "double checking a few things" means running the numbers over and over, day and night, they might applaud his consistency. Consistency to keeping them all safe.

Five thinks it might be nice if his siblings were smart enough to get it, because then he could sleep while they toiled over numbers in the kitchen at three in the morning. But it's useless to imagine petty things like getting enough sleep when the world could end at any moment.

He wonders what Allison would have said if she knew the .45 on the table was the probability the world is ending tonight.


	2. NoteBook

This one's pretty short. :0 some of the later chapters are a bit longer :)

* * *

2.

.

.

It is, perhaps, by chance, that Vanya ends up opening the book at all. Or—not chance, really. Diego had called it "family cleaning time" to give Mom a break from all her hard, robotic work. Klaus called it "a waste of time."

"What else would you be doing?" Diego smarts, lugging a box of Dad's old things towards the couch, "You don't have a job, Klaus."

"Neither do you." Allison adds from the other side of the room.

"For your information," Klaus cuts in, "I was going to paint my nails today."

Vanya looks up from the books she'd been stacking to be donated later. It was nice to start fresh. "You can still do that. It only takes a few minutes."

"Not if you don't want to be boring." Remembering some of the more... let's say artistic designs Vanya had seen Klaus sport, she suddenly didn't doubt him.

After a second, Allison sighs. "Just don't get paint on the walls again, please."

"Yes, ma'am!"

There's a quiet lull in the conversation for everyone to keep cleaning. After a moment, Allison perks up from the scattered papers around her. "That reminds me, actually. Did you guys know Five is still looking into the apocalypse?"

"Really?" Diego frowns. "I thought that was done with?"

Allison just shrugs and tosses some bundled pages into a trash bag. "I guess. He said he was just checking some things over."

Vanya feels something in her chest clench, suddenly nervous over herself again. They've all been working to train her control since the aborted apocalypse. She'd thought things were going well, but if Five... "Do you think we should talk to him?"

"Aw, leave little Number Five alone," Klaus whines.

"I think he's got it covered." Allison answered, a little hesitantly. "Anyway. He was writing those equations of his all over the kitchen table yesterday. Should we get him a notebook, or something?"

"He wrote on the table?" Klaus quirks a brow, seeming to muffle laughter. He spares a look to the empty air to his left, and, after a pause, says, "Is too" without explanation.

Vanya ignores whatever side-conversation Klaus and Ben are having to ponder Allison's revelation. "I think that's a good idea." She pleases.

At that, Allison sends a grateful smile her way. "Thanks. Though I don't see why he hasn't got one for himself already."

Vanya's about to offer her thoughts when Klaus pipes up once more. "Ben says Five doesn't like leaving the house."

"He didn't have a problem that first week back." Diego frowns.

"I think he had other priorities then, my man." Klaus shrugs.

And, well, Vanya has to agree with that. Between the apocalypse and time assassins, she's fairly sure Five didn't have time to worry about other things. "Why doesn't he like to leave, Ben?"

Klaus doesn't answer, so she figures Ben must not know either. Problem for another time, she supposes. After all, they've got time now that the apocalypse was averted. (Thinking about the apocalypse made Vanya a little nauseous.) They can ask him after they finish cleaning up. The luxury of not facing down a timeline, she supposes.

"Kids these days," Klaus jests, "always hiding in their rooms."

Vanya drops the books she's holding.

There's a thud on the floor when they drop that makes everyone in the room jump and Diego make a grab for a knife.

"Sorry." She apologizes meekly.

Allison collects herself. "It's alright, Vanya. We were donating those ones anyway, weren't we?"

"That's right."

With a start, Vanya notices one of the books has fallen open. She pulls closer to it mutely, noticing a curious writing in the pages. "Guys?" She calls, "I think Dad wrote in some of these."

Klaus perks up and moves closer, abandoning what he was pretending to help with. "Uh, why is this all math?"

Allison frowns, but starts walking towards them. It takes a moment for Vanya to realize the writing is mostly gibberish and, as Klaus pointed out, mathematical equations. The work is so beyond Vanya's knowledge that might as well be gibberish too.

When Allison reads over her shoulder, she makes a small noise. "That looks likes Five's writing, actually."

"Five?" Vanya asks. Flipping a page to see what else there is, she sees the next page filled with writing too. And the next. Really, the whole book is made illegible by frantic mathematical equations. She spares an inquiring look to the book's title, but it doesn't seem to have much relevance to the probability work inside.

"I'm not sure, but that looks like what he was doing on the table yesterday."

Klaus steals the tome from her hands and squints down at it. After a tick, he deems it unreadable by tossing the thing aside. "Well, this is trash."

And, really, it is. They can't donate this now. Vanya glances at the other books she'd passively added to the pile and wonders how many others Five wrote in. Following her gaze, Diego groans before flipping through one.

"This one, too." He grumbles after a moment. He checks another. "Uh, we might have to look through all of these. Kid's been... busy."

"Seriously?" Allison checks another book with a groan. "Brat."

Vanya sighs.

"I have a great idea." Klaus beams, "What if we got him a notebook?"

Allison throws a book at him.

.

Vanya find Five later that day and pulls him aside. "Here."

He takes the red, spiral notebook with a raised eyebrow.

"Allison thought you might like one." Vanya winces minutely, remembering how many books they had to reluctantly re-shelve.

"Thanks."

Though Five looks eager to move, toying with a marker in one hand, Vanya has more to say. She's still hung up on what Ben had pointed out earlier. "One more thing, Five."

He gives her a look that says to go on, but it's an impatient falsity at best. The irritated manner sends an unsteady thrum through Vanya's heart. And in that moment, she falters—so used to the trample of harsh gazes and heavy words.

"Never mind."

"Okay." The boy hums tensely.

Vanya feels a little sick when Five is already scribbling in the notebook as he walks down the hall. Allison had said Five was working on the apocalypse still in those complex equations, and she wonders why the writing looks so scared.

.

(Five fills up the notebook in a day. He'd ask for another one, but waiting is a waste of time when the walls in his room aren't blacked out yet.)


	3. 100 Apocalypse

!thoughts of suicide!

stay safe yall

Also: i dont remember writing this tbh

Also Also: i haven't written chapter 6 yet oof

* * *

Everyone in the family has a number—and Five doesn't mean their original names. It's all about probability. For instance, Luther, at any given moment, has an 85% chance of ending the world. It's one of the main reasons Five doesn't like him hanging around Vanya. It's just too risky. Everyone in the family's got a probability. Everyone outside the family does, too, even if Five hasn't quite run all those numbers yet.

Even he has a number. On a good day, he stands a 55% of setting Vanya off. But unlike the other numbers, Five can predict his own behavior. He can control it. So while when it comes to others, he's left guessing at what behaviors they will choose, Five can cater his actions more specifically.

Before any decision, Five checks the math. Should he take the last cup of coffee? No—the probability of Vanya becoming unstable due to fatigue is too high. Should he go to her latest concert? Yes—the likelihood she becomes depressed when he doesn't show is too great to risk.

It all comes down to math. Five likes that. Calculating every action is exhausting, but he has to do it. Has to do it and can't stop for the sake of everyone else. Sometimes Five daydreams about getting enough sleep while carving equation-after-equation into the rough of his bedroom wall.

On days like that, he thinks Vanya ending the world isn't such a bad thing. At least then he could get some sleep.

You can't be afraid all the time if you're dead.

(There's a probability Five's been wanting to check.)

.

It's raining outside and Five hasn't really slept in ages. Every time he gets tired, he just makes more coffee. Wanders the house in pajamas and never goes out. He's staring blankly at a wall in the house's library, too caught up in the lulling sound of thunder and rain to think about worlds ending.

Except that isn't really true. The rain does mellow him out, though.

Five takes a deep breath and turns from where'd he's been idly staring. There's an uncapped marker in his hand, but no paper in sight. He can't write in the books anymore. Apparently that's off limits and he knows Allison will throw a fit if he writes on the side table. That's fine. Five wants to keep these particular numbers close to the chest anyway. Not that these morons could ever figure out what he's writing if they wanted to.

It's the principle of the thing.

A burst of thunder fills the air in quaking savagery. Five tells himself he's mellowed, but the boom puts him a bit on edge. Or maybe the anxiety is over something else. But he needs to know the probability more than he needs to calm down.

There's a probability Five's been wanting to check, but has been too nervous to actually get around to. It's sort of a big deal.

He's been worrying over this particular calculation for quite a while now. It feels like a good time to just put up and run the numbers. The sick ache in his chest agrees in a voice like Delores' baked in smoke.

Five lets out a world-weary sigh.

The equation starts at the pulse of his wrist, but the probability gets away from him—starts wrapping around and up his arm. He's never done an equation in such shaky, illegible script before. A boom of thunder excuses his panicked scrawl.

The answer comes out almost impossibly at the crook of Five's elbow. If he bends his arm now, the percent will blur and smudge. Five watches it for a second, wondering if the math was right in a paranoid stretch for rainy quiet. It is.

He closes his eyes and waits desperately for another crowd of thunder.

.

The next thunderclap bellows like Delores when she's mad. On his arm, that damning number only worsens in the half-light.

(There are countless morbid, haunted thoughts telling Five what to do, but the number on his wrist won't let him listen.)

.

"Dinner's up!" Klaus calls from somewhere. Five doesn't want to get up just yet. He's staring down the number like—

"Hurry up losers—Ben's hungry!"

"Ben's a ghost." Diego's voice comes in reply. His voice is close, and when Five looks up, the knife-clad man is walking past him towards the kitchen. They meet eyes for a second before Diego seems to notice the marker and writing. "You coming?" He says, haltingly, after a silent moment.

—staring down the number like the number itself knows what it means.

"Sure." Five says, and tries not to focus on the trill crack of his voice as he rolls down his sleeve.

Diego's brow creases, watching that manic writing cover up. "Listen, Five—"

"Didn't you hear?" Five sharps, "Ben's hungry."

.

Dinner is a frenzied affair. It always with this family, Five supposes. But his mind is only half-way on the occasion. Every few minutes, he's sparing a glance at the wrist hidden under a sleeve.

For once, he's glad his siblings are too stupid to know what it means.

Mom is settled in to join them over dinner, seated neatly at Diego's side even if her plate is empty. For his part, Five is more than content to watch his siblings serve themselves and noisily begin eating. Five doesn't think he can stomach much. Not with the weight of numbers on his arm and the quake of thunder in the air.

Instead, he quietly picks at the meal, watching Klaus get spaghetti sauce on his face; Luther struggle with hands that are too big to hold the fork with much precision; Diego—sending Five looks every few seconds.

Damn.

Five shoves garlic bread in his mouth and looks away.

"Klaus, please wash your face." Allison sighs. She's probably the neatest eater among the lot, barring Vanya, who eats with much reserve.

"You wash your face."

Vanya snorts.

"Are you a child?" Allison lightly teases between bites. "Come on."

"But dear sister! I've been sober for nearly a month now!" Klaus doesn't make to clean the steady mess he's making, instead wavering dramatically. "Surely you can let sorry little Number Four have this one tiny pleasure?"

"No." Luther and Allison intone.

Meanwhile, Five pushes the food around in his bowl. All the light-hearted commentary almost puts him at ease. He missed this. Missed it in the silent, smoky fever of apocalypse. Missed it behind Delores' plastic voice.

"Ben says I can be as messy as I want."

Vanya smirks. "Does he, though?"

Klaus aborts a pitying gesture to make 'shushing' sounds at the empty seat to his left. Then, in a serious tone, replies, "Yes."

Allison quirks a brow. Then she throws a stack of napkins at him.

Five moves the spaghetti around until it manages to look somewhat more eaten. It's been hard to eat heavy meals since the apocalypse, but Five isn't worried enough to investigate the phenomenon. He eats enough to keep busy.

While Klaus is jokingly cleaning the mess, Diego is silently sending curious looks at Five. Under the bustle of loud joking, the knife-wielder spares a glance at the arm Five keeps hidden under the table.

He probably wonders what it says, Five thinks testily. Nosy little shit.

Luther sighs. "You should behave more like Allison and me, Klaus."

"What? Like my hands are too big to hold a fork? No thanks."

"Or Vanya." Allison suggests with a laugh to cover up Luther's affronted breath.

Vanya gestures lazily to her clean plate and clean figure. Five looks down at his own plate for reference, but just finds noodles sloppily pushed around. (He's feeling a bit tangled up, too.)

"I bet Diego agrees with me," Number Four says suddenly, redirecting attention to the silently contemplative brother. "I saw him eat with one of his stabbing knives once."

"I don't—" Diego stop-starts weakly, "—_stabbing knife_?"

"You know," Klaus mimes stabbing in the air, "stabbing knife."

Shaking his head, and looking a bit humored, Diego snorts, "Food off of you face. Mom worked hard on this meal and you should respect that she spent her own time doing this for us."

Five wants to roll his eyes, but belatedly realizes he doesn't actually care.

"And Five—" Diego continues, "—you too."

Suddenly there's an angry little pile of stones in Five's stomach. If he couldn't eat before, he certainly can't now with all these eyes turned to him. He shoves his wrist further beneath the table. (He's feeling guilty even if they don't know the calculation, Five thinks bitterly in a voice that sounds like plastic).

"Ooh! Are you a messy eater too, kiddo?" Klaus chuckles through a toothy grin.

"Not a kid."

"Old man, then."

Diego cuts in with little hesitance. "No. But he's also not eating."

All the humor in the room shrivels up at that. Five huffs loudly, but a booming thunder mostly smothers the attempt. "I ate! You watched me eat!"

He has the gall to look a bit abashed at that. Five glares his way meanly, hot expression silently conveying displeasure at having been watched. "One b-bite of bread isn't a meal." Diego settles on.

"I'm not hungry. Also: fuck you."

"Language." Grace hums.

Allison frowns forward in her seat. Her expression is creased like a worried mother's in a way that makes Five's face burn. "Are you getting sick, Five?"

Five sees the out as it is presented to him, but holds back from taking it. Instead, he gives a devilish smirk, "Sick of you asking stupid questions."

"Eyyy!" Klaus booms.

"Five."

He fakes a cough. "Yes. I'm dying."

"That's not very tasteful, old man. There's a dead guy sitting right here." Klaus tuts, "For shame."

Say what you will about this brother, but Five can always count on Klaus to help him joke his way out of confrontation.

"That's not—" Luther starts.

There's an angry boom in the air and the lights flick out to immediate shadow.

Five let's his eyes readjust for a second. With the storm outside, he guesses the electricity must have blown out. Thank Someone for that topic changer. No one will bug Five about food if they can't see the meal he hasn't eaten.

It's still dark for a few moments longer when Five realizes he doesn't know how Vanya will react. (Should he run the numbers? How likely is being scared by a power outage to set her off? Should he do the math now or jump straight to killing her? If he reaches out now, she can be dead in—)

"That scared me." Vanya says, mellow, after seeming to notice Five's shadowed gaze turn her way. "Is everyone alright?"

Klaus' voice pipes up next, but it takes a moment for Five to find him in the dark. "I think I stabbed myself with the fork."

In the hustle of Klaus' declaration, Five sighs and tries to relax. It's a mildly successful endeavor. But now that the thought has entered his head, it's an itching fear that doesn't settle. He needs to make sure this won't upset the apocalyptic balance they've struck. Will anyone notice if he slips away to check the math real quick..?

Oh. Diego's watching him in the dark, eyes squinted and contemplative. At Five's silent response, his gaze trails lower before stopping at the hand Five so dangerously hides away. His face is asking less than prying.

Five turns his face up, mutely daring Deigo to continue.

If asked, Five doesn't think he could lie.

(It's easier when the number he runs isn't his own. Five stops the thought there, and refuses to dive beneath the surface equation.)

Silence hangs between them for a moment just seconds too long.

"Well," Five interrupts the table. "That's my cue to leave." And promptly teleports away.

.

"Look, I'm bleeding." Klaus cries as the lights click back on.

Diego sighs, turning his careful expression from the spot at which the youngest-oldest sibling had just been sitting. "That's sauce, dumbass."

.

He warps to a nearby library, not wanting to be visited by Diego's ugly gaze or Allison's maternal frown. Having a small-ish body is nice (he'll never say this aloud) for tucking into small, safe places. Five shuffles awkwardly between a bookshelf and the wall to think.

When he first came back (to eight days and 100% apocalypse), there wasn't time to check every variable. He picked the most significant numbers and went from there.

But Vanya didn't end the world. Not tonight. (She's only at .64 today. There's nothing left he can do to help.)

The end of the world is so much worse when you know it's coming, but you don't know just when. Sometimes Five misses the quiet chaos of apocalypse. Sometimes he misses knowing it was just eight days. He misses being able to sleep.

Five looks down at the angry black writing wrapping up his wrist like a snake, and trails his finger along the math to his elbow. He stares at the number for a minute—maybe two—and feels like he should want to cry.

There's a knife under his pillow and an arm filled with statistics asking to be opened up. A quiet trill in his mind that says is the world worth all his suffering? Five considers it with quiet longing. Then he looks at the number printed in the crook of his arm just to see how the two add up.

If he takes his own life, Vanya ends the world—100%. For all his worth, Five can't tell who's the more selfish.

.

The world doesn't end tonight because Five checks the math until he passes out.


	4. Movie Night

Two things:

1\. Next chapter is finished but might be a bit late bc ill be out of town

2\. Five says fuck a lot

* * *

4.

.

"I don't want to watch a shitty movie with you."

"Shitty?" Diego smiles, "Don't let Allison hear you say that."

Five frowns twice as hard in spite. "I don't want to do anything with you. How about that?"

Klaus sits up from where he's draped across the sofa, holding a bowl of popcorn haphazardly. "I don't think he likes you, Diego."

"I don't like you either, Klaus." Five offers peaceably and makes to leave. He's content with how this interaction has gone.

Diego snorts and Klaus makes an overdramatic sound. "You don't have to like us." Number Two says anyway, "Allison has the lead role in this film. It's our job as good siblings to support her."

From where he had been miming hurt, Klaus pipes up, "You can't weasel your way out of this one, little bro."

Five sent him a glare.

"Plus," he adds lightly, "Allison was pretty P. about the whole 'writing on the table and also like eighty books' thing. I think you might owe it to her to stay and watch this movie with us."

Diego snorts from his seat.

For his part, Five just groans. "How exactly is this benefitting her? Enlighten me." But his protest goes mostly unanswered as Five, reluctantly, sits back down anyway. God, he hates this fucking family.

(Family... Five glances down at his covered wrist and wonders what they would say if they knew what the numbers there meant. If they knew what he was thinking in the late hours of statistical inquiry.)

"Sshh." Four quiets. "Vanya'll be here in a minute with pizza."

"Why does this announcement require silence?"

"Because you're too negative, bro." He gives a half-hearted gesture. "Quit harshing my mellow."

Five just sighs, "I hate this fucking family."

(And tries to ignore the tightening feeling in his chest at the mention of Vanya's name.)

.

Klaus throws the bowl of popcorn into Five's arms, shouting, "Vanya! Dear sister, whom I love very much, is that pizza for me?"

"It's for everyone," she tempers lightly, smiling. Vanya hands him a box, anyway.

"Sit back down, Klaus," Five drawls easily. "Let's get this over with."

Vanya frowns, but her eyes seem mostly harmless. "Eager to go, Five?"

There are a few equations he wants to run later, but he can't say that. And he's been itching to quintuple-check the formula running up his arm and he _definitely_ can't say that. Instead, he settles neatly on, "Yes." Right to the point.

He doesn't like talking with Vanya. It's like having a conversation with a nuclear bomb that could go off at the wrong phrasing. Five doesn't play games with that.

"Oh." Is all she manages to say, looking a little hurt. Five tries to remember the last time they had a pleasant conversation, but comes up short. "Allison is out with Luther, right?" She pivots, flinchingly, "Will she be okay with us watching without her?"

"She already knows what happens. It's not like she's missing out." Klaus pipes up, simultaneously chewing through the pizza he liberated.

Diego frowns in his brother's direction. "It is her movie."

"Point." Five adds.

Vanya's smile is small and soft. There's something in her eyes that speaks of an old loneliness washed over. Five is momentarily halted by the love in that gaze. Not for the first time, he thinks they at least have this in common. A youth spent isolated from the world. Of course, in drastically different strokes. Dad forced Vanya away from the family. Five did this to himself.

"Sorry I'm late, by the way." Vanya says purposely, returning Five's thoughts from the smell of imagined ashes. "The pizza place was short-staffed. It took a few extra minutes to get everything together, I guess."

Something about that makes Five feel a little sick, but he can't place why. Everything about Vanya is liable to put him on edge, these days.

"No big." Klaus waves.

The sooner they watch this movie, the sooner Five can get back to his equations. Maybe he can even catch some sleep before another fear consumes him. (This thought almost makes him laugh, but the equation on Five's wrist remind him of the concern's realty.) "Can you just start the movie already?"

Diego gives him a look. "Have you decided you want to watch the movie now?"

"Aw, our baby bro supporting his sister!"

Glaring, he continues hotly, "I have shit to do. Let's get a move on before I stop pretending I care about avoiding Allison's wrath."

Vanya's warm smile from across the room doesn't assuage anything like Five thinks it's supposed to. That sharp pain in his chest seems to breath (like Delores never could).

"Alright," she says delicately, "Start the movie, Diego?"

.

(He refuses to wash the marker on his wrist. When he has to wash up, Five just writes it again with more desperation. With the desperation of a tortured man and his razor.

A part of him wants the others to know what it means. The other part doesn't want to think about it.)

.

It's a stupid romantic comedy. Five tries his best, but at most he hears half the romantic drivel.

As the movie drags on, his thoughts start to wander. It's only so long until the thick of marker around his wrist starts to burn.

.

In the palm of his hand, Five's marker feels like a heavy weight. He traces that heaviness to a sick feeling building in his chest.

The movie drones on, but Five's not listening anymore. His mind wanders back, feeling flighty and strange, trying to chase down that heavy feeling in Five's chest. What had Vanya said? There was some problem with the pizza, only now he couldn't place it. But there was a problem. Fuck. And the movie—what had made Vanya cry, again? It's a romance, isn't it? Was she thinking about Leonard—or whoever—again?

Was that enough to send her into a spiral? Five's done the math before. Little things like this can really add up.

He should—

Allison's character says something that just sounds like static and Vanya huffs out a quiet sob.

He needs to do the math. The world's going to end if he doesn't check now. Five knows it. He's got the marker but nothing to write on—damnit. His arm—! No. What's written there is... different.

Five's panicking—he knows he is. Despite this, Five still let's his mind do a frantic little dance in its paranoia moment before blanking on a viable solution.

It is as such that Five is just surprised as Klaus when he starts writing on Klaus' arm.

"Uh," Klaus says, "Hey."

And... Five can remedy this. Probably. At the very least, writing this out is making him feel a little less dizzy. After a bout of contemplation, he settles on, "Hey," and keeps writing.

"You okay there... bud?"

Damn. Sometimes Five forgets Klaus is actually pretty observant. He misses the drugged-out, flighty brother for a moment. That brother wouldn't ask questions.

"Yup. Don't worry about it. Keep watching the movie."

"I'll be honest—kind of hard to do that when you're writing on my arm."

From across the room, Five hears Diego and Vanya shift in their seats.

"What's going on?" His sister's voice frowns through the fog of Five's paranoia.

"Allison's character is having boy troubles. I'm just so emotional." He deadpans, distracted with drawing a graph on Klaus' forearm.

He hears Klaus' surprised-but-amused mutter from above him, "Holy shit, were you actually watching that?"

Diego sits up completely. "Wh—are you writing on his arm?"

"Five." Vanya sighs.

Someone pauses the movie and he silently curses. "I was watching that." He lies easily.

"No you weren't."

Well, got him there. Next best answer is—"Shut the fuck up, Diego."

Klaus removes his arm from Five's grip to inspect the writing. He's lucky the ex-assassin doesn't need to write the last bit out to know the probability. "Looks like math." Klaus says lightly above him, still squinting uselessly at his bare arm.

It's quiet for a moment, before Vanya's sigh lights the air a-fire. "I thought you were going to use the notebook for that, Five?"

Diego nods from his seat, and Five feels his face burn.

Instead of giving in to the simplicity of his sorrows, Five snaps, "Does it look like I have that notebook with me? Turn your movie back on."

"We should talk about this." Vanya says.

Five thinks about their efforts as a family to come together and to fix what their father had broken. He thinks about all the family meetings to work on Vanya's powers and the family dinners and the damned family movie nights. But while they were being trodden on by their father, Five was doing some trampling of his own.

So he doesn't want to talk about this with them—his fear of everything and his inability to focus on anything but the apocalypse. People like Five and people like his siblings can't ever meet eye-to-eye because they were born of different strokes.

Five would never pretend to care for someone like he knows this family is often want to do. He's spent enough time alone to know this (while they were raised to hate each other, he was born to hate himself).

"Fuck off." Is what he actually says, because the weight of thoughts is too difficult to make words.

"Come on. The table, the books, your arm—" Five sucks in a breath at Diego's casual indication, "—now Klaus? We can't get closer as a family if you don't open up."

While Five is still reeling (gripping his arm like a drowned man to board), Klaus finishes inspecting his arm and relents it back to his brother's reach. Five ignores it appreciatively.

"Didn't I say?" He snaps. "I hate this fucking family."

.

Allison returns about an hour after. The movie finishes at about the same time, but no one was especially invested by that point. Five thinks it was the thick of his anger in the air that disrupted everything, but isn't actually sure. This wouldn't have happened if his siblings weren't so intent on digging into his problems.

They can't do the math so he has to. It's as simple as that.

"Allison!" Klaus booms. He never took his arm back.

"We just finished up your latest movie." Diego informs, giving a smile as if in justification.

"Aww!" Allison coos. She seems genuinely grateful, which makes Five feel a little better. "Did you guys like it?"

"It fucking sucked." He offers.

Vanya smiles. "It was wonderful, Allison."

"Really top-notch heterosexual pining."

"Fuck me." Five groans. "It was great, Allison. Not a waste of my time at all."

Allison snorts at this. Her entrance lightens the air and makes it easier to breathe and joke. The levity that fills the room chokes Five with a bittersweet twinge.

While Klaus is re-enacting his favorite scene to giggles and cheers, Five's thinking that one joke gone too far could end the world. It doesn't escape his notice that the highest percentages to the world's inevitable death all come from this family.

He hates that he loves them.

Five wouldn't sleep even if he were able.


	5. Snap

Thanks for your patience about being a few days late! Last chapter is still a wip but i'm hoping to have it done for sunday... xoxo

* * *

5.

Luther's seen the walls in Five's room.

He's seen the manic writing that builds up one wall and spreads onto the other. At the time, he'd given it a pass because there was a lot going on. Like the apocalypse. And attempted murder. Also blackmail? There was a lot to keep up with and his little (older?) brother was caught in the middle.

So Luther let it go. He also held half of a mannequin hostage. Life is weird.

It's been weeks since Luther caught Five hurriedly scribbling equations on the wall and he's basically forgotten about it. He's been busy. They've all been busy. Between settling back together as a family at the Academy and trying to figure out Vanya's powers, there hasn't been much time to relax.

In fact, Luther is very pointedly not relaxing. Even though he's not allowed in the room when Vanya's training (for various reasons, admittedly mostly his fault), he wants to do something. So while Number One's siblings are bottled up in a room, doing whatever mystery training Allison barred him from, he's wandering the house with a broom and a mop.

It's self-appointed cleaning duty.

Ever since Mom rebooted, Diego's been preaching to her about living her own life. Somewhere along the way Luther decided that was as good a place for him to start as any.

.

Hence why Luther's hunched over himself, scrubbing idly at Five's walls, washing off equation after equation; name after name. If he tries to stop and decipher the work, he'll get a headache. The walls have since filled up noisily, but Luther is committed.

It's frankly appalling how much writing there was to begin with. He's been working at it for hours. If Luther didn't know any better, he'd say his brother must be insane. Actually...

There's only part of one wall left when he hears something drop from the other side of the room.

Luther swings around, grip tightening on the sponge. Standing in the doorway is little Five. The boy's mouth is agape, his eyes are wide, and there's a growing puddle of coffee at his feet.

"Shit! Five, you're making a mess!" Luther barks, taking a fast step in that direction. The only thing stopping him from forcefully moving Five out is the dawning anger on the ex-assassin's face.

"What," Five's eyes narrow and take on an angry hue, "the fuck are you doing?" Using his smaller frame to his advantage, Five ducks under Luther's extended arm. He stops at the now clean wall.

Luther shuffles, feeling chastised and wrong, but not sure why. "Uh, cleaning? Your walls are a mess." There's a pause. "Were. Were a mess."

When Five takes a deep breath, Luther mistakes it for calming. But the boy turns around with a look of barely restrained hatred that turns One away. "Are you stupid?!" Five shouts. "Those equations are more important than your pea brain could ever hope to understand!"

"Woah, calm down, buddy!" It looks like Five is about to go head-long into a lecture. Luther wants to put that to a stop because, honestly? Five's not as brilliant or important as he thinks he is. Just that thought squares up Luther's shoulders and tenses his jaw. (There's writing on the boy's wrist he can't make out.)

"Don't. Call me. Buddy."

Luther holds up his hands, pacifying. At the gesture, Five's scowl worsens. "Okay. Five, you can't just write all over the walls. I won't tolerate vandalizing the Academy."

"Jesus, Luther. Do you have no concept of importance?" Five smarts, "I think a few walls is a small price to pay for, I don't know, stopping the apocalypse? Or did you forget about that already?"

Is he mistaken? Or are Five's hands shaking a bit? Luther can't tell if that's nerves or anger, but the easy dismissal of Luther's leadership tilts him off the consideration. "The apocalypse is over. It's time you stopped thinking only about yourself and started thinking about the future. The team."

"The apocalypse is never over, Number One." Five takes a chalk from somewhere, turns form Luther, and starts writing. The script is shaky and uneven, but Luther isn't keen enough to know if Five's doing the math wrong, too. "One slip up is all it takes and Vanya could destroy the world all over again."

It pulls Luther up short, but his fists are still clenched.

He can tell by the tight of Five's shoulders cleaning the wall was some sort of modern tragedy. But the boy can't be serious, right? Luther gets that they're in a tough situation, but it was obvious Luther was just cleaning up. Trying to help.

But Five doesn't say anything else, even though Luther thinks he must want to. The wall fills back up with probabilities and names and numbers. Luther watches as the open wall dirties back up and wants to feel grateful for what Five is doing. He can't. He just feels slighted, or scorned, or something. There's a puddle of coffee on the floor and it sticks to Luther's shoes.

After a moment of hurried writing, Five hisses, "Get out."

"Whatever." Luther gruffs. There's an admission in the shake of Five's voice that he counts as a win. There's a give in the tilt of his write. "For all the whining you do about being older than you look, maybe you should act your age, old man."

Five's writing doesn't stop (writing on the walls like a toddler, scribbles in a language only he can understand). "You have no idea the scale of what I'm doing."

(What I'm doing for you.)

"It's time you moved on." Luther sharps once more. For all the time he's not allowed in when Vanya trains, he knows they're making progress. Maybe he just doesn't get the paranoia. Father always did say time travel messed with the mind. He wants to say as much, but knows Five isn't ready to hear it. Luther kicks the fallen coffee cup so it rolls away, a trail of cooling liquid follows the spin. "Clean this up yourself."

That's a suitable way to leave, isn't it? A definitive show of his leadership without crossing too many toes? That Five doesn't turn around to attack him makes Luther think yes.

.

The door shuts behind Luther with a click. What silence follows is chilled and stained in the smell of black coffee and chalk. Five breathes out shakily.

He doesn't owe Luther anything, Five thinks, and he's not going to forgive the man for washing away these equations. It's not his fault Luther's too stupid to understand what he's written there. Nor is it that the scrawl is childish.

(There's a thickness in the clouds of chalk-dust that looks like ash—)

Sigma. Five adds all the numbers up and equals them a name. Finds the results significant and circles it for later consideration. p .05.

He doesn't care what Luther says. Number One could wash these walls a hundred times, but Five would just write it back a hundred more. Each time with more considerations, more contemplation, and more scrutiny. If Luther wants to wipe that, he'll be at it all day.

(—and a burn in the back of his throat that tastes like fire.)

Five isn't a child, so he won't whine about it. He just writes more and he writes it faster. Adds and divides and runs a hypothesis test (or two, or one-hundred).

(There's a baker down a few streets with a 67% chance of ending the world today. An old lady who feeds pigeons at 54%. Vanya is downstairs laughing with her family and resting neatly at 90%.)

And Five doesn't stop writing.

There aren't bad people, or good people, or really any people at all. Just numbers. Percentages that make friends, and get married, and might just end the world tonight.

Five tries not to get mad at Luther, so he doesn't. It's hard to be mad at a number, and Luther's just a .85.

(Five spares a tired, angry glance to the manic writing on his wrist).

Luther doesn't get that even if Vanya didn't end the world then, doesn't mean she won't still. Doesn't mean the Temps Commission isn't still working against them—him. Doesn't mean he can ever relax. (Klaus would say he's addicted, but Klaus is just a number, too).

And the writing on Five's arm burns like fire ants.

The chalk snaps.


	6. Noah's Arc

CW: thoughts of suicide!

sorry for the long wait :/

* * *

+1.

.

43%. 25%. 64%.

A baker. A mother. A dancer.

Everyone Five might pass on the street is another number. He's calculated them all—made it too far to fail now. Calculates them again every morning and finishes as the next dawns.

Is it crazy to want to lock Vanya up? Five does and he doesn't. The probability of locking her up and ending the world is .94. That's too high to risk. Too high to even consider.

But Five also thinks if she wasn't around he might be able to get some sleep.

Every step is a potential misstep. He runs the numbers and knows just how bad things could be. Five's not overthinking the ease of tragedy, he's covering all the bases.

(Diego forgets Vanya's favorite tea at the supermarket. 64%.)

There's broken chalk on the floor, dissolving in a puddle of coffee Five didn't clean up. It's not important that it'll congeal thick and bitter. Just like it doesn't matter that the walls are filled in paranoid script, or that the table, or the books, or him or anyone else is marked up in numbers.

(Vanya's violin gets stolen. 89%.)

He leaves it behind. Needs to clear his head. Picks up a marker (just in case) and climbs out the window. Five perches on the edge before diving off. He takes the fire escape like a goshawk who forgets to fly.

(Vanya learns what's on Five's wrist. 98%.)

.

Five doesn't like the city. It's too loud. There are too many people. Sometimes the dissonance from apocalypse is nice that he doesn't get sucked into memories and trauma. Others all the sounds makes his head hurt and chest pound nosily. He doesn't like that he knows the probability that any given person on the street will set off the end of days.

But he wanders the city, regardless. It's not something he likes to do, and that's why he'd like to do it now. The house can be hard to inhabit. Five trails along the edge of busy streets and ducks into alleys when the bustle is too bustle-y.

Only alleyways are just as loud. Loud with the harsh of graffiti and loud with how the buildings tower over him. It's a different sort of loud, but it leaves the same self-hating impression.

There's only so many ways to get out of all that noise.

Yet, he keeps walking. Wandering. The pain of other people and the screaming in his ears is welcome. Five appreciates the idea of a suffering he hasn't manufactured with numbers and insomnia, so he lets the city eat him whole. The city's teeth bump into Five as he counter-currents down the sidewalk. Its tongue is a blare of sirens.

And the ring of a cellphone.

Actually—shit. Is that his phone? It must have been in his pocket when he bailed earlier. Five's still not especially used to having a phone of his own. Damn.

Five checks the caller, but is already resigned to the reality of answering before it's up.

It's Vanya.

Damn. Literally the worst sibling to call him, honestly. Talking to Vanya is like talking to the apocalypse herself. He has to steel himself before picking up the line. It's cold metal spreading through his body and laying his tongue flat and heavy. "It's Five." He says, like he's trying with all his might to pretend the person on the other end of the signal is just a coworker.

"Five, thank goodness!" Vanya doesn't usually sound so emotional. She's one to reply with mellowed, reasoned words instead, and the dissonance is a bit worrying. "Luther said you two fought, but when I went to check on you, no one was here. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"Ah—" Number Seven stop-starts, "Right. Okay. It's just—there was spilt coffee all over the floor. I was—we were worried something might have happened."

She still sounds a bit breathy, and Five feels something like guilt or terror wash over him. "No," he answers, simply, "I just wanted to get out." Talking to Vanya always feels like navigating a minefield these days. He's carefully picking words and running quick, incomplete equations through his head to keep ahead of the apocalypse.

"I'm glad." And she really does sound it. Only, there's still something weighing down Vanya's tone and the uncertainty is driving Five mad with worry.

Five holds his breath in a quick attempt to ground the panic chasing up his lungs.

Vanya seems to also appreciate the moment to build resolve when her voice breaks out over the line (in static, robot song), "Listen, Five... you know how I've been seeing a therapist? It's just, I've been thinking you might benefit from seeing one too."

"No way." The words are out before he can catch them building in his thoughts.

"That's fine." She tempers, seeming to expect the interruption. "I'll—I'm glad we did this over the phone, actually. You can think about it before coming back, okay? Then we can talk again, Five."

It feels like the steely set to his frame is burning up under the pressure of being so transparent and... weak. "I don't need to talk to any doctor."

"Just think about it, okay? I mentioned therapy to the others, too. Since Dad... well, we all have a lot of issues. I think it would help all of us to talk about what happened."

(Five's mind wanders to the apocalypse. The terror of being alone, of burning alone. The plastic touch of an imagined companion. The smell of rotted meat in the air, appreciated by maggots and a cicada's song. Five thinks about The Handler, and how her eyes are just as dead as his.)

"Nothing happened." Five replies after a moment too long had passed, then hangs up with a thick set to his face. He wonders what expression Vanya's making right now. Is she angry? Confused? Or is it one of those bitter-tasting looks Five can never name correctly? But with how his phone has turned back to the home screen, he supposes he won't get to know.

Therapy—honestly! Is that how little she thinks of him? Five's not selfish enough to think he needs counsel and he's not crazy enough to need medication. If he can survive the apocalypse and survive being a time-space assassin, he's surely proven he can handle the stresses of modern life. Five wishes he had told Vanya as much before hanging up, but isn't sure that she wouldn't have had a more informed comeback than his own.

Five shoves the phone back into his pocket and picks up his wandering pace. Therapy. What a joke.

So caught up in angry discontent as he is, Five doesn't realize he's hung up on Vanya of all people until well-enough five minutes later. At such a time, even though his appearance is rather quite young and there really are many people around, Five suddenly shouts, "Fuck!"

He's—Five is so fucking stupid. Too tired to think ahead and too angry to consider actions. Five just hung up on the apocalypse. Who does that? He tries to quickly do the math in his head for how badly he's screwed up today's chance of not becoming an inescapable hellscape, but can't keep the numbers straight for how bad he's shaking.

"Fuck—ah," It's a grand old thing he brought that marker along today. Even his past self knew he would ruin things today. Five will just... do the math here. Somewhere. And then... Five doesn't know. Run home and apologize if the case may be. Or welcome the end of days if things are too close.

How stupid. Vanya's probably having a mental breakdown, right? His family is probably slaughtered by now. The building crumbled down. The bodies burning—

Five takes a deep breath. The math first, panicking later. The attempt at calming helps only minimally.

Uncapping the marker, Five considers where to start writing. His arm is sacred land for vague ideations only. But there's a huge, open canvas just to Five's left. A large, white building here, a brick one there. Five's fairly used to writing on buildings just to keep his thoughts straight, as there isn't much paper in the end-times.

So he starts writing there. A minute passes—two, and the once clear city building is soon marred by row-after-row of statistical inquiry. Probability. Error. Confidence Interval. Oh, what's the Effect Size here? Five is still going, feeling a sick nervousness growing in his chest, when someone clears their throat behind him.

Figuring it's not for him, Five is especially bemused when that same, grumbling noise sounds again. This time, it's followed by a gruff, "We don't allow graffiti here, kid."

Five factors in Luther's presence to the equation, then considers that the other siblings were around, too. "Good for you."

"...shouldn't you be in school?"

"Does it look like I go to school?" And, actually, that's probably a bad question. Five tries again, rounding off a number before turning to face his inquirer, "Don't answer that. Ever."

And—fuck. If that isn't a police officer! Five tries to avoid the law; mostly because he looks like a lost child, but also because he doesn't like people telling him what to do. Authority figures like The Handler and cops are the sorts of people he likes to steer clear of.

The cop raises a brow. "You look like you should be in school." Is what he ends up saying. Five squints to read the man's name from where it's pinned to the uniform. Before he can make out the word, the officer smiles down at him, flashing a badge. "Officer Ramirez."

Five returns the smile, trying to pretend like he cares, but gives up on the act pretty quick. He's thinking about the math again, actually. With how quick he did it, Five's sure he made a mistake somewhere. A .64 is fairly high, but it isn't necessarily world-ending. He should double-check, just to be sure. He starts writing again.

"Now—hey! Please stop." Ramirez sounds heartbroken at the prospect of Five's uncaring. "This is illegal, you know? You're breaking the law in front of a cop?"

Oh, shit. No cops in the apocalypse, Five thinks wryly. Anyway, the number comes out the same, so Five can breathe a little easier. He'll talk to Vanya later, though. Clear things up. But first—

"I am going to have to bring you in, kid."

But first he's going to the police station.

.

(Sometimes he wishes Vanya would just get on with it already.)

Ramirez plays a song on the radio that Five doesn't recognize. It sounds like music, up until the point that it doesn't anymore. After that, all Five can think about is how badly fucked up everything is.

(In Five's dreams, Vanya already has.)

.

The police station is too... loud. There's a buzzing coming from the overhead lights and a buzzing coming from the fans and a buzzing coming from everyone's mouths. Five let's his mind wander from the sounds before they make him sick.

Maybe he's just stressed—that's probably why Five's been thinking about killing himself lately. Probably. He's up from dusk 'til dawn, writing equation after equation. But the real thing that tightens that knot in his throat is the simple fact that he's the only one worried about the world ending. Allison tells him off for it, Vanya quietly disapproves, Klaus can't be bothered, and Luther wants him gone. All the while, Five's counting down the days until the world ends. Counting it on the table and the walls and wrapped around the wrist he dreams of slitting.

Five groans loudly into his elbow, where his head is rested on the officer's desk. His thoughts are dark and tangling, and Five easily blames the lack of sleep. "I'm tired."

"What's that?" Running a gaze over the boy, the officer—Ramirez—hums. "You do look a little peaky. I'll get you something to drink." But he only motions for another officer to get a glass of water.

He'd rather have coffee.

"So," Ramirez starts, "I don't think we've never had you in here before, kid. We'll talk with your guardians and let you off pretty light."

Five is fairly sure there's pity in the man's gaze. He wants to hate it, but Five is feeling pretty pitiful.

"You know, I've never seen someone graffiti their math homework on public property before!" He jokes.

The other officer returns with a paper cup filled with water. Five takes it to have something to do with his hands. "Thanks," he says, tense. He sips his water like a man waiting for the world to end. Or like a child who didn't want to deal with nosy officers.

"Calm down, kid." Ramirez sighs, looking put off by Five's unwillingness to play. "You aren't in that much trouble."

It's almost funny how horrifically Officer Ramirez is misinterpreting Five's morbid gaze. But the wake of his humor makes Five's throat feel tight. He doesn't want to see Vanya. The thought occurs to him like a thunderstorm on a clear day. And Five knows that's selfish—it makes him feel a bit sick—but Vanya's eyes are innocent where her voice is pure Armageddon.

"Alright," Ramirez huffs, "You already know I'm officer Ramirez. Can I get a name from you now, kid?"

Briefly, Five is tempted to not give a name at all—let the officer fumble and flail while Five gets a break from family. But every second passed is a second wasted. At least if they hurry this along he can work things out with Vanya quickly. Apologize for hanging up on her and then avoid her until the end of days.

"Five." He says by way of answer, feeling every bit the child he isn't.

The officer blinks owlishly. "Like the number?"

"Do you need me to spell that for you, too?"

"Uh—no, no. I think I've got it covered." He stumbles, then, "You have a last name—uh—Five?"

"Hargreeves."

Ramirez nods, typing for a second before he seems to realize what Five said. The officer turns back to him with a blank, blinking expression. "Like the kids with powers?"

"Sure." he shrugs.

"...Aren't you supposed to be an adult by now?"

"You're telling me."

After a moment, the typing picks back up. Ramirez breathes out a sigh like he's just gotten involved in something a little beyond him. "..."

"What?"

"It says here you were... reported missing. Years and years ago."

Oh. Yeah. Did they never clear it up that he had come back? Five's been a bit preoccupied since the not-apocalypse and his siblings are all born idiots, so he supposes not. Go figure this would come back to bite him. "Here I am." Five tries half-heartedly, not caring much for the dramatics.

"Just... tell me who I can call." Ramirez sounds defeated, but Five's too busy looking for the coffee maker to care.

.

The call comes in two minutes later. Klaus grins from the sofa, watching with good humor as Vanya's face twists at whatever comes from the other end of the line. Ever intrigued, he waves, "Who was that, dear sister?"

"I think Five just got arrested." She tries, words hollow and bemused.

Diego snorts. "He was really upset about that therapy thing, huh?"

.

Vanya pulls up to a stoplight when Klaus eagerly points out the window. There's a building with strange, illegibly mathematical scribbles crossing over its walls.

"A clue," he informs neatly.

"Oh, god." Diego groans, "My brother's a delinquent."

Vanya rolls her eyes. "Which one?"

.

As it happens two ex-superheroes and one Vanya entering the police station to visit they're 10-year-old/50-year-old brother raises a few eyes. Despite this, the other officers give them a wide berth. Five imagines this is because they can sense how irritated and tired he is. (In fact, the officer's do stay away for this exact reason. The boy slowly drinking water at Ramirez's desk has a look of pure murder in his eyes even the most seasoned of detectives won't chance.)

Diego runs ahead to meet Five, while the other two trail behind casually. "Are you okay?!"

Blinking lazily, Five hums affirmative. He turns to face the others, commenting, "Oh look. You brought the whole gang."

"I heard you'd been detained," Vanya says, "And the others wanted to come, too."

From his seat, Ramirez stands, looking suitably confused by this turn of events. "...Right. And you're... his guardians, then?"

"Absolutely."

"Absolutely not."

Klaus and Diego glance at each other, while Vanya rolls her eyes. She clears her throat. "It's complicated. Can I talk to Five for a minute?"

Despite his looking like a child, Five manages to mask his dread fairly well. He mentally rolls up his sleeves to prepare for the inevitable verbal minefield he's about to walk through.

"Why not." Ramirez sounds defeated. Before Vanya carts Five away, he can hear the officer ask his brothers, "Is he actually an adult?"

"No!"

"Yes."

Klaus and Diego share a look.

.

"Listen, Five..." Vanya starts, but Five can't wait any longer. The weight of the world might rest on his apology.

"I'm sorry." He interrupts, voice nearly cracking, "For hanging up on you. Or, you know, anything else you're upset about."

She blinks, voice level. "I'm not upset about that, Five. What I asked you... it's something that should be discussed in person, after all. I'm worried about you."

Five doesn't reply for a moment.

"Anyone could see you're having a tough time readjusting to regular life." She continues. "And no one's blaming you for that. I just know how much therapy has helped me deal with Dad and with the apocalypse and I want to see that improvement in you, too."

Closing his eyes, Five tries to clear his head. If Vanya is a bomb, then he's the defuser. It's his responsibility to know everything about her—to write the manual for the end of the world. And everything she says is a blow to Five's character, but so what?

"Five... please say something."

It is then that Five remembers that he's not the important one here. It takes a minute of silence before he speaks again.

"...fine."

Vanya starts, like she hadn't expected his answer. "O-oh, really? Great! Well, I'll make an appointment for you then, and—"

Five stops listening. He finds the details don't matter much, in the end. This is what Five knows: therapy won't help him, because he doesn't need help. The only person who might fix his problems is maybe a quantum physicist or a statistician. Someone to run the numbers for him. But Five is exhausted and terrified and immeasurably in love with his family.

If it takes going to therapy for Vanya to let the world keep spinning for one more day, he'll just have to agree.

Best not to rock the boat (Vanya is Noah's Arc—she carries the whole world on her shoulders. Five just keeps the animals from tipping the damn thing over).

Maybe the psychiatrist will give him enough drugs that these morbid thoughts can leave him alone. He'd get more work done like that.

Towering above him, Noah's Arc is smiling.

.

Klaus waves at them when they return, looking entirely too pleased for someone in a police station. "Dear brother," he says by way of greeting, "Welcome to the arrestee club. The first time I was arrested was for drug possession, but graffiti is a start."

"I've killed hundreds of people. Do not patronize me."

The officer blinks. "Excuse me."

Vanya smiles, anyway. She seems terribly happy with this turn of events, which makes Five feel so relieved he might just pass out. "Don't listen to him, please."

For all their familial bluster, Diego manages to ground them. "Anyway." He shoots Klaus a glare. "What do we need to do to get out of here? Pay a fine?"

"I'm letting you off the hook." Ramirez says instead.

"Really?" Klaus starts. "Thanks, my man."

"This isn't a favor." He amends, staring blankly at Five. "Mostly I'm just confused if you're actually a kid or not."

.

Five stares emptily at the coffee maker by the far wall, but with how Vanya's smiling, he thinks he'll just go to sleep.


End file.
